26. the curtain

“Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” cries a slightly hysterical voice, desperate to conceal the true workings of a complex illusion. 

In the closing scenes of the Wizard of Oz, we learn that the mysterious, renowned, ‘great and powerful’ Oz is not an omnipotent, indefatigable magician. 

He’s just a man. 

A man who built a reputation that preceded him, and at times, protected him. But also a man who, at the end of the day, and the end of the Yellow Brick Road, didn’t have the power to return Dorothy to Kansas. 

At first, on realizing that the elusive and illustrious Wizard cannot help Dorothy get home again, she is devastated. She’s come so far, only to find that her final hope for homecoming is no different than she is; just a human, doing the best they can to make their way in the world, who doesn’t have all the answers.

“I’m a good man, but a bad wizard,” he says, before doing his just-human best to provide consolation prizes instead of magical gifts: the Scarecrow gets a diploma instead of a brain, the Lion a medal instead of courage, and the Tin Man a ticking heart-shaped clock instead of flesh and blood. He offers to take Dorothy home in his hot air balloon.

He does the best that he can with the tools that he has.

There’s outrage and a sense of betrayal, but also satisfaction in realizing the Wizard is but a mere mortal, a humbug of a man.

The satisfaction is a gentle 'harrumph' from our inner knowing, a sensible reminder there’s no need for pedestals; that each of us, even the most illustrious, prestigious, powerful, and sensational, are just doing the best we can to get by in this strange, confusing, exhausting world. 

Truth telling is a double-edged sword.

On one hand, it is freeing to show up and speak from the heart. On the other, it shatters any hopes of compartmentalization on the altar of transparency.

Specifically when it comes to coaching, counseling, guiding women on the priestess path, sitting as a keeper of the mushroom, wearing my ‘spiritual hats’ or ‘business lady hats,’ I notice fear crop up that this project of radical honesty will do me harm - that if I go too far, reveal the inner workings of my brain and being - that I’ll sacrifice whatever it is that makes people think I can help them; that they’ll see I’m not the one who can bestow upon them magical gifts - I’m just the woman behind the curtain.

Pulling back the curtain is satisfying and uncomfortable at the same time. Part of me wants to maintain a semblance of separation, the facade that is so readily available via social media, which features a curated highlight reel in exchange for fleeting attention, or at least the perception of it.

Another part wants to rip the curtain down and simply be all of me, in all ways and all spaces. Apparently, it’s the greater part, because the more days I spend on this Earth, the stronger the pulse of truth-telling gets, and the bigger my voice grows within me. 

But there’s something even more to this, something that’s eluding me as I try to capture it in language. It’s like the growing voice isn’t just pulsating with more depth, truth, and conviction, but also like as it expands, it sparkles and swirls and starts to shapeshift, coalescing from wisps of whispered truth into a force, an essence with a life of its own, with agency, intention, and most of all - undeniable inspiration. 

It can feel scary to birth our gifts, respond to the call of the Muse, or commit to our devotional practices, in much the same way it feels scary to birth a child. 

Who am I to have this responsibility? 

What if I don’t know how to take care of it? 

What if I don’t want to take care of it? 

What if I do it wrong? 

What if I mess it up and it harms someone? 

What if I give my all to it, and in the end, it doesn’t matter?

My thoughts are dancing tonight like flickering fire - here, there, changing, teasing, emerging from something hot and alive. 

If I trace the abstract fear which hinders or holds up my Big Voice, I notice that it, too, dances - but more like a shadow that can’t quite be caught. I want to look at it, behold it, gaze upon it with warm and curious eyes, and ask it: 

“What are you afraid they will see behind the curtain?” 

Shadow tendrils, wispy whispering half answers, tiptoe around the corners of my mind. 

We’re afraid they’ll see we don’t have all the answers. 

We’re afraid they’ll see our hypocrisy and areas of weakness. 

We’re afraid they’ll see the limitations of our abilities. 

We’re afraid they’ll see us change our minds. 

We’re afraid they’ll see our uncertainty. 

We’re afraid they’ll see our unhealed parts. 

We’re afraid they’ll see our imperfection. 

We’re afraid they’ll see… 

“Stop.” The Big Voice interrupts, not loud, just clear. 

“My love, you are not afraid that they will see these things. They already see these pieces of your humanity, which have never been hidden from others. The discomfort of Truth-Telling as a practice is that it invites YOU to see these aspects of yourself - again, and again, and again. You reveal your secrets, even if only to yourself, and you find the woman behind the curtain. You find the one who has orchestrated a grand design of ego to precede her, and protect her. But what if your heart doesn’t need preceding or protecting? What if it can be laid bare as you lean into trust that writing from each moment is simply mastering the art of Being With What Is?” 

In writing the truth of the day - messy, nonsensical, deep, rambling, wise, half-baked, grasping, knowing, tentative or convicted - I have found a lifeline.

Throwing it all out there, still coalescing, still swirling, shapeshifting, growing, finding the steadily growing pulse of light and life that is it’s essence - I have found a refuge.

Having it be met with an outpouring of pedestal-free love; whole-making, accepting, encompassing, coalescing -

I have found the sweetest, most affirming, validating gift of grace. 

Grace whether I appear today as the Wizard, Scarecrow, Lion, Tin-Man, Wicked Witch or Dorothy.

Grace for my rambling, and rage, and ego-reckoning.

Thank you for shredding the curtain with me. 

Like Glinda with her star-sparkle wand, the witnessing reminds me that I’ve had the power of homecoming in truth-telling all along. I just have to keep discovering it for myself.